


A very merry un-birthday to you

by Aja



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: inceptiversary, M/M, Partnership, inceptiversary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 19:30:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7400926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur puts his scalpel down. "No," he says. "What's today?"</p><p>Eames studies him for a moment. "I don't think I'll tell you just yet. See if I can jog your memory."</p><p>Years ago, this kind of game would have annoyed Arthur endlessly, especially when Eames was the one attempting to play with him. He used to think their work was of paramount importance and that anything this juvenile just got in the way of efficiency and good time management. He knows the job well enough now to know that's a ridiculous conceit, and himself well enough now to admit that his work ethic was a cover. He mostly just didn't want to give Eames encouragement to think Arthur enjoyed playing.</p><p>He knows by now that was a ridiculous conceit, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A very merry un-birthday to you

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I wrote this last year for Inceptiversary! Who even knew! Not me! I must have posted this on Tumblr or somewhere but IDK where. Anyway, here it is, Inceptiversary once again, and _we are all still here._ Here's to us! (Who's like us? Damn few.)

“I was thinking,” Eames says. "Do you recall what today is?" 

He's standing too close for Arthur’s taste, not really invading Arthur’s personal space, but still radiating body heat that Arthur can feel sliding against his own skin. Fuck working in un-air-conditioned warehouses, Arthur thinks, fighting off a grimace. They're too old and too in-demand for this shit.

He wipes sweat from his forehead, briefly entertaining thoughts of going legit and starting up a nice air-conditioned office in a suburban business park somewhere: Dreamscapes made while you wait, sandwiched between a nail salon and a Chinese restaurant. Plush couches in a nice, open lobby. A receptionist. Clients who are contractually prevented from coming after them with guns afterwards. 

It takes him a moment to realize that the other half of this fantasy partnership—he never thought those were two words he’d ever put together—is still waiting for his reply. Eames is leaning casually against Arthur’s drafting table in what Arthur knows by now is a deliberate pose. Most of Eames’ casual postures are. 

Arthur has been fiddling with a model of a boring office cubicle block, vaguely reminiscent of the one he'd just been dreaming about escaping to. He wonders if that's where the thought came from. He puts his scalpel down. "No," he says. "What's today?"

Eames studies him for a moment. "I don't think I'll tell you just yet. See if I can jog your memory."

Years ago, this kind of game would have annoyed Arthur endlessly, especially when Eames was the one attempting to play with him. He used to think their work was of paramount importance and that anything this juvenile just got in the way of efficiency and good time management. He knows the job well enough now to know that's a ridiculous conceit, and himself well enough now to admit that his work ethic was a cover. He mostly just didn't want to give Eames encouragement to think Arthur enjoyed playing. 

He knows by now that was a ridiculous conceit, too.

Now, he only sits back and gives Eames the kind of calm, unruffled look that used to have Eames trying to get beneath his skin for the rest of the day. But Eames has mellowed out, too, as they've done this longer; where he once would have retorted with something purposely acerbic, now he only winks and saunters over to the PASIV. (Once Arthur insisted on being the only one besides the chemist to touch it. Now... well, Eames has been doing this a while.)

When they're under, it takes him a moment to get his bearings, because Eames' dreamscape is nothing like they'd discussed. He's standing on a rotunda overlooking a very swank marble patio with an equally pristine infinity pool beneath, Beyond that, a cliffside overlooking--

"Barcelona," he says, turning around to where he knows Eames will be standing, wearing the wine Versace that Arthur is shocked to realize he still remembers like yesterday. It had been tailored to perfection, and even though Arthur hasn't seen it since that day five years ago, it still knocks the breath out of him. 

"Why did you--" he doesn't bother finishing the sentence, just like he doesn't bother looking down at the civilian clothes he's wearing. He’d been straight out of the army and unused to being without a uniform. He assumes he wears them less awkwardly than he did then, but judging by the fond look on Eames' face, he mostly still looks the same.

Eames, though--Arthur remembers how he'd felt working this first post-military job with him, the sizzling irritation and lust that had distracted and angered him every time he looked at Eames. Now there's none of that--just a spark of warmth, of familiarity. And, fine, affection. If a face could be a kind of comfort-food, he thinks, smiling in spite of himself, then Eames,' miracle of miracles, would be his.

"You just wanted to fit into that suit again," he says, as Eames joins him on the balcony. He doesn’t remember the sunset from that first night, but the one falling slowly over the sky in the east looks good enough to be real. 

Eames scoffs. "Darling, I've only gained muscle. You, on the other hand, are starting to sag a little. I hate to say it, but such are the vestiges of time."

Arthur thinks, _you like me anyway_ , and snorts. "Five years ago today," he says.

"So you do remember."

"I'm surprised you do, seeing as you were only concerned with stealing a PASIV and defrauding her Majesty's Secret Service."

“Not true,” Eames says. "I was also very concerned with getting into your pants.”

He says it casually, like it's a longstanding joke between them. Maybe it is. As soon as he says it, it seems like something Arthur’s always known. 

Arthur turns and looks at him. Really looks, letting him know he’s not going to be able to laugh it off—not down here. Not today, of all days. To his credit, Eames doesn’t do the thing where he darts his glance away and refuses to meet Arthur’s gaze. They know each other too well for that, he thinks. Too well, up til now, for everything but this.

“My pants definitely don’t remember that,” he says. He angles his body towards Eames, signaling his intent to move closer, if Eames wants him to. 

“Tsk, tsk,” says Eames. “You hadn’t even started wearing them tight enough to cut off all circulation to your brain, so they’ve no excuse.”

“They were a bit distracted trying and failing to keep you from stealing a PASIV,” Arthur says.

“That’s my Arthur,” says Eames. “Patron saint of lost causes.” He definitely wants Arthur to move closer. Arthur does. He’d ask why here, why now, but Eames always has been sentimental in unexpected ways. He supposes this is as fitting a moment as any. And they’ve been building up to it for—well. For the last five years.

“You think this is a lost cause?” He puts his hand on Eames’ arm.

Eames tugs him in. “I know it is,” he says. “Doomed from day one.”

“You say that like this isn’t kind of our anniversary,” says Arthur. “We’ve done pretty well so far.”

“Technically, we never actually started anything,” says Eames. “And if we never actually start anything, there won’t be anything to end, will it?”

“Odds beaten,” Arthur agrees, and kisses him.

“Happy anniversary,” he says, when he finally lets Eames up for air.

The sunset is reflected in the corners of Eames’ eyes when he smiles, and Arthur thinks: _Yeah. That’s real_.


End file.
